


Build Your Wings and Fly, Icarus

by tinyavenger_tonystark



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Adorable Connor, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Autistic Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Cat Owner Gavin Reed, Comfort/Angst, Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings, Connor Deserves Happiness, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Deviant Upgraded Connor | RK900, Elijah Kamski & Gavin Reed are Siblings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Family Issues, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gavin Reed Swears, Gay Disaster Gavin Reed, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Hank Anderson & Connor Friendship, Hank Anderson Swears, Healing, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Pacifist Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Parent Hank Anderson, Poor Connor, Post-Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Hank Anderson, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has a Different Name, and also rk900 is the sulky teen and rk800 is the innocent kid, oh and connor is the younger brother of the two, upgraded connor is not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-05 07:27:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15859008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyavenger_tonystark/pseuds/tinyavenger_tonystark
Summary: Hank didn’t plan on taking Connor in but after the revolution Connor told him that he didn’t know where else to go. He looked so miserable and lost that Hank didn’t see any other choice except to give him a hug and tell him to get in the goddamn car. At some point, Connor got his own room and a fish tank, and the top shelf of the cabinet becomes known as 'Connor's shelf'. Neither of them mentioned it and it just became part of daily life.Then the RK900 comes along and Connor takes him to Hank.“I don’t know where else to bring him, so I brought him home.”So, Hank says yes- because damn the kid, it’s impossible to say no. And RK900, or Evan, as he’s currently choosing to go by, becomes a permanent fixture in the house. He’s quieter and less curious than Connor was in the beginning, but his personality fills the space in the way that one person can’t.There are some things that makes a house feel a lot more like home and seeing 2 people sit beside each other on the couch when you get home from work is one of those things.





	1. Shopping, Domesticity, and Insecurity

**Author's Note:**

> Connor is insecure, Hank takes them shopping, and RK900 (Evan) actually has a personality! He's the sulky and sarcastic teenager of the family. Connor is kind and adorable and Softe. Oh, and an anxious boi

The RK900 was created to be better than Connor, rectifying his flaws and adding more traits that would make him, as Hank would say, an easier pill to swallow.

It isn’t that Connor worries about being the one who’s lesser than, merely that he knows that the RK900 will likely replace him one day.

“Connor?” Hank’s voice pulls Connor from his mind and he opens his eyes to meet the other man’s. “Your LED’s yellow. Are you good?”

Connor blinks, surprised that his hands are what humans would describe as “cold”. He nods. “I am well, Lieutenant, thank you for asking.” Hank grumbles something under his breath and continues his morning trek to the kitchen. Connor stands and follows him, if only to distract himself from the crawling something underneath his chest-plate that Markus tells him is called anxiety. “Do we have any new cases?”

“Not as far as I know, no,” Hank replies easily. “We could probably take a few days off, now that I think of it.”

Connor frowns, shifting from foot to foot. “I do not think that would be a wise use of our time.”

Hank rolls his eyes, but Connor knows that it’s just the Lieutenant’s way of expressing his thoughts. “Yeah, well, who said humans care about what’s wise? Plus, we’ve gotta do some shopping for you and, uh, whatsit? Evan. We gotta buy new clothes for the guy. His uniform’s a real eyesore.”

Connor turns his attention to the bowl of cereal that Hank is making, analyzing the ingredients with a glance. “I suppose that would be a good idea. It would help him blend in more.”

“Exactly. Although,” Hank says, looking at Connor, “I think you should get some too.”

“No.” _I can’t._ The uniform is all that’s left to remind him of himself. He doesn't want to forget about his nature. This is the only thing familiar, the only thing tying him to his past. He doesn't want to  _forget_. 

Deviant or not, he doesn’t want to risk the chance of forgetting. 

There’s also the fact that these clothes are _comfortable_ and they’re _safe_ and he doesn’t _want_ to change them.

Hank sighs. They’ve been through this enough times before that Connor knows an argument is coming in roughly 2 minutes if this conversation does not get defused right away. “Connor, listen. _I_ know that _you_ know that fucking Cyber-“

Sumo barks and Connor takes that as his chance. “Excuse me for a second, Hank. I should go and see why Sumo is upset.” He quickly leaves before Hank has a chance to protest, finding Sumo by the door to the bedroom. “What is it, boy?”

Sumo barks again, licking Connor’s hand when he sees him before he calms. Connor does a quick scan of the environment and concludes that Sumo must be barking at the sounds of the TV coming from inside of the room that Hank gave Evan.

_Evan._

Connor walks away, Sumo following him as he goes back to the kitchen. Hank has finished making his bowl of cereal and only gives him a glance when he walks into the room.

“Where’s Evan?” Hank asks. “He’s usually awake by now.”

Hank watches as the LED on Connor’s head spins yellow before it returns to blue. He opens his mouth to ask but Connor beats him to it, voice slightly... off, in a way that Hank doesn't quite catch. “He is watching a television show from 2006. According to my sources, it is about monsters, angels, demons, and hunters, and a show that humans loved at the time of its production.”

A small smile passes Hank’s lips. “I remember that show. Can’t believe they’re still playing that, actually.” Connor’s tertiary sensors alert him to movement and he knows it’s Evan before Evan even fully steps into the room. Hank turns to him. “Ah, speak of the devil!”

Evan pauses and frowns. Connor can tell he’s about to say something back, something that most would interpret as a lack of understanding when, in fact, Evan just enjoys toying with people. “I am not a devil. I am an android, model number-“

“Yeah, I know, you literal bastard, it’s a figure of speech.” Hank rolls his eyes. “Get ready, we’re going to go out in a little bit. We need to get you some new clothes.”

The niggling feeling under Connor’s chest-plate resumes.

“I am already content with my current outfit. I see no need for new ones,” Evan answers, standing ramrod straight like he always does.

There are times that Hank almost _forgets_ that Evan isn’t just a carbon copy of Connor, that having Evan around isn’t just like having 2 Connor’s around. Sometimes he slips and calls Evan by Connor’s name, and he doesn’t have to be a genius to see the way that the both of them wince at that.

There are small things that remind him which one’s which, of course. Connor’s eyes are soft brown as the earth, always looking like he’s a kid begging someone for ice-cream after a baseball game. Evan’s eyes are a blue-grey color that looks vaguely like the steel of a gun, sarcastic and stormy more often than not.

Evan is also an inch or two taller than Connor, making Connor look like the younger brother of the two of them. Connor also mentioned something along the lines of Evan being older in android terms for some reason or another, thus making him more human and experienced whereas Connor is still young and perpetually confused.

Some things that Hank notices, of course, are things he doesn’t mention. Connor tends to fidget around a lot, flipping his coin until it would probably hurt if Connor wasn’t an android. Evan _looks_ more serious but has a dry sense of humor while Connor looks relaxed but is actually an anxiety burrito.

Then again, after all the kid went through…

Hank didn’t plan on taking Connor in but after the revolution Connor told him that he didn’t know where else to go. He looked so miserable and lost that Hank didn’t see any other choice except to give him a hug and tell him to get in the goddamn car. At some point, Connor got his own room and a fish tank, and the top shelf of the cabinet becomes known as 'Connor's shelf'. Neither of them mentioned it and it just became part of daily life.

Then the RK900 comes along and Connor takes him to Hank.

_[“I don’t know where else to bring him, so I brought him home.”]_

Home.

_I brought him home._

So, Hank says yes- because damn the kid, it’s impossible to say no. And RK900, or Evan, as he’s currently choosing to go by, becomes a permanent fixture in the house. He’s quieter and less curious than Connor was in the beginning, but his personality fills the space in the way that one person can’t.

There are some things that makes a house feel a lot more like home and seeing 2 people sit beside each other on the couch when you get home from work is one of those things. Evan was made to work in detective work as well, but when he’s freed of his programming, he says that he doesn’t _enjoy_ that as much as Connor.

He doesn’t know what he likes doing yet though, so he just follows Connor and Hank to the precinct to observe, doing what’s asked without complaint even though it’s not something he particularly likes doing.

He does, however, enjoy messing with Gavin Reed just as much as Gavin enjoys being a dick to the two android boys. Hank will never forget the fear of god in Gavin’s eyes when he realized that RK900 was in _no way, shape or form_ as clueless, kind, and naïve as Connor. The coffee flying towards him on RK900’s first day likely made that message sink in.

After that, the two just enjoyed being dicks to one another in a less hateful manner. Officers all over the precinct have gotten used to sudden screaming matches and arguments over things as simple as a pen in the wrong place.

“Doesn’t matter if you don’t see a reason for it, it’s part of the human experience.” Hank puts his bowl into the sink, slapping Connor’s hand away to keep him from washing the dishes. Damn kid always acts like he’s still supposed to clean and keep the house. “No cleaning until we get back.”

The ‘until we get back’ is a compromise because experience taught him that telling Connor not to clean without giving him alternatives gives him serious anxiety.

_[“Please, let me clean.” Connor tries to stand again, but Hank puts his hands on his shoulders to keep him from getting up and forcing his way to the stained coffee table. Waking up and finding Connor still wiping away at the glass was not how Hank wanted to spend his morning._

_Hank pauses, staring down at the android and thanking whatever god exists that the LED is yellow and not red. “Kid, tell me why you need to clean, and we’ll talk more. I don’t want you cleanin’ because you feel like you gotta.”_

_Connor’s LED flashes yellow longer as he stares up at Hank, brown eyes wide. “I have to. I need to. I don’t know what else to- Lieutenant, I have to clean.”_

_“Why?”_

_Hank doesn’t know if it’s his imagination, but he swears that Connor trembles under his hand. “I don’t want to go back to Cyberlife. If I can just be **useful** -“]_

Connor frowns before he gives a single nod and steps back. Evan squints at the two of them. “Why does Connor not have to get new clothes? He is still wearing his uniform. Can I not be the same as him?”

Hank shrugs, throwing on his coat and grabbing his keys. “We’ll deal with that when we get there. Both of you, get your asses in the car, stat.” The boys trail after him, each showing reluctance in their own ways. While Evan walks swiftly but sits silently in the back like a brooding dragon with his arms crossed, Connor lags behind and sits quietly beside Hank, fiddling with his damnable coin.

They ride in silence until Hank turns on the music, letting some AC/DC come across the speakers. Evan stares outside the window and Hank takes the time to look the two of his android sons over.

Well, at least they both kept their LED’s in, making it easier to know what they’re feeling. Not that Evan makes it any challenge to understand that he’s upset. Connor, on the other hand, typically skirts around the subject. Hank has to juice him for answers on how he’s feeling.

_[“He’s better at integrating into society,” Connor mentions casually, running his fingers through Sumo’s fur. Hank looks over at him, but Connor has that look on his face that he’s not going to face Hank no matter how much Hank wants to meet his eyes._

_“I was made to be more advanced than average domestic helpers or customer service androids. He was made to be more advanced than **me**. He’s been implanted with the social skills similar to the KL900; he’s faster, stronger, and better at integrating into society seamlessly.”_

_Hank sits up straighter. “What’s all that mean?”_

_Connor tilts his head, almost but not quite meeting Hank’s eyes. “I told you already, Lieutenant, he’s-“_

_Lieutenant. Hank knew that Connor only uses that when they’re at work or he’s, at the very least, at a 30 percent stress level. There’s something else there, under the surface, running through the gears in Connor’s head._

_“What does it mean to you?” Hank corrects, seeing the LED spin once, twice, before it turns back to blue._

_“It means that I am an obsolete model. If I did not become a deviant, it means that I should return myself to Cyberlife for disassembly and deactivation. But I am a deviant and I… I do not know what it means to me.”_

_Hank wraps an arm around Connor’s shoulders. “We’ll figure it out then, alright? This is a shitstorm and you’re basically a robo-kid that’s still trying to understand things. Take it a day at a time.”_

_Connor opens his mouth, before he turns to the TV again, silent. Hank doesn’t comment on it.]_

When they finally get to the mall, Hank lets out a small sigh of relief at the lack of a crowd. That left the three of them plenty of space without having someone butt their noses into their business.

“Alright, so first things first: furniture. Connor, you need more stuff for your room, and Evan, you need to design your room.”

He ignores Evan’s look of confusion and focuses on leading them to the furniture section of _Bullseye Mall_. He notes the curtains that might look good in the living room before he keeps moving on to the pillows and blankets. He stands there and turns to see Connor and Evan just staring at him. “Well? Ain’t gonna pick itself, you know. Choose.”

Evan scans the aisle with a gaze, looking like he’s about to give a lecture on molecular nanotechnology instead of trying to pick out a damn bed set. Connor, on the other hand, runs his fingers through each type of fabric and reads the description on the back. Hank sighs. _It’s going to be a long fucking day._

“I like this one,” Evan says after five minutes of analyzing the pillows, blankets, pillowcases, and accessories on sale in the current store before he considered the pros and cons of each bedroom design. He picks up a slate gray comforter and throws it into the cart that Hank had the foresight to get without a single care for the cups that Hank put in there. Ignoring Hank’s murmured swear, he continues getting the necessary pillows, making sure they don’t ruin the aesthetic of the room.

Connor takes that time to pick out some blankets of his own, settling on a light blue blanket that weighs like 10 pounds on its own, before picking out green pillows.

“Alright, so we’re good in that department. Let’s go and check off the next thing on the list: clothes.”

The second thing on the list is a damn struggle to check off, it turns out. Evan doesn’t like anything because he doesn’t want to wear anything else other than what he already has, and Connor keeps disappearing and reappearing like a damn magic rabbit. Hank remembers those weird kid-leashes he used to see as a kid and wonders if he should have brought some today to keep the two from wandering off every time he turns around.

Evan doesn’t seem to like the idea that Hank is making him get one while Connor doesn’t, so Hank decides to shoot two birds with one stone.

“Just try it on, Evan, it doesn’t matter if it’s made of whatever percent nylon, for fuck’s sake.” He turns around to look for the other asshole that he knows is avoiding him to try and escape getting his own clothes while Evan walks to the changing area. “Connor! Get over here and look through the clothes.”

Connor walks towards him with a polite smile that Hank already knows is his I’m-going-to-find-a-polite-way-to-disobey look. Hank levels him with a stern look, watching as Connor’s smile slowly melts.

“I don’t want new clothes,” Connor finally says after an intense staring session. He crosses his arms before his hands find their way to his pocket, pulling out his coin. “I find my own clothes acceptable for casual and professional settings.”

Evan steps out of the dressing booth. Hank doubts he really tried on the clothes and he can feel his entire soul sigh. It’s like herding fucking cats with these two. Volatile and _sulky_ cats.

Connor slinks his way to the other aisles again, coming back every five minutes or so.

Hank looks through the racks, pulling out outfit after outfit before he shoves a pair of jeans and a shirt into Connor’s arms. “Try them on.” He doesn’t give Connor the chance to refuse, pushing him into the booth before closing it. “Connor, please!”

Connor stares at the clothes in his arms for a while, hanging them up carefully once his hands no longer feel like porcelain. The thirium pumps through him a little harder, but he ignores this in favor of feeling the fabric of the shirt that Hank picked out for him. It’s soft. He doesn’t hate it. It doesn’t make his skin crawl like the other clothes he’d worn when he was undercover.

_This is okay._

It’s okay.

 _He’s_ okay.

He lets out a soft breath and removes his clothes methodically until he’s left in his standard-issue underclothes, putting on jeans that feel… different. He tries the shirt next, against the voice in his head that tells him to put everything down, to go back to Cyberlife. His insides sing with a chorus of _wrong, wrong, wrong_ and error messages fill his vision before he can dismiss them.

His coding doesn’t say he isn’t allowed to wear other clothes, but all he’s ever worn is the clothes that Cyberlife made for him and this feels too much like disobedience. This feels too much like trying to be human when he’s _not_.

_[Amanda doesn’t turn from the hedges, pruning tool still in her fingers, but he knows that she is aware of his presence. How can she not be when she is, in all actuality, in his mind?_

_“If you fail your mission, Connor, there will be no other choice but for you to be decommissioned.”_

_Decommissioned. Connor looks around them and something in him sinks. An error message appears in front of his eyes and he swipes it away._

_Decommissioned means nothingness. He’s been shut down and deactivated before, but never decommissioned. They always found new ways to improve him, to reassign him to a different task. Connor Mark 1 was a test._

_He died quickly the first time._

_He didn’t know it was a test, but he knows now. He knows that everything is a test. He knows that in the end the familiar flickering out of his biocomponents will come for him again._

_Amanda faces him, looking at him with disappointed eyes and pursed lips. “Do not fail me again, Connor. Remember your mission and do not stray from the path you are ordered to walk.”]_

He feels a fluttering in his stomach that Hank calls fear. He is Connor 53. He doesn’t want to become Connor 54. He doesn’t want to go back to Cyberlife.

He doesn’t want to die.

Androids cannot die. He is not alive.

The knowledge of that does little to abate the rising stress levels.

If Amanda gets control of him again-

“Connor?” Evan calls from outside the door and Connor realizes that he’s been sitting on the floor for a while. His internal clock tells him that he’s been on the floor for exactly 14 minutes and 27 seconds. His optical sensors recalibrate, and he stands after he’s sure his legs are in optimal condition and would not fail him. “Hank is asking if you’ve been murdered in there. It would be unfortunate for the saleslady if you were.”

A joke.

A smile pulls at Connor’s lips as he pushes himself forward and opens the door with his cold fingers. Evan analyzes him quietly. “You look good.”

The mismatch of colors that Evan is wearing are an assault on Connor’s visual receptors, but he does not say so. Hank has told him before that sometimes lying is better and saying the complete truth might ‘end up in you getting socked in the face if I was gone’. “Thank you. You also look… interesting.”

“Alright, the compliment-exchange is over,” Hank says as he walks over with more clothes in his arms. “Those fit you, and those look good on you. These are all roughly the same size, so they should, in theory, also work. Because you two take for-fucking-ever to try on one outfit, we’re going to go with the power of hope.”

Evan runs his finger down the hem of the shirt. “Hope is meaningless in the face of reality.”

“Thanks, Captain Bleak. Let’s go. We still gotta get some food.”


	2. Amanda's a Virus, Connor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amanda finally gets removed, but god the cost on Connor is... a lot. This is almost pure angst, y'all. It'll get lighter in a bit.

Connor does not like to eat. It isn’t that he cannot physically eat human food, but rather, he doesn’t like eating. There’s a function that allows androids to turn the food into a source of energy so that they could blend in more in human society, but it isn’t a necessity like it is with humans.

So, he chooses not to.

The textures feel odd against his tongue and he can never keep the tastes from making his mind go _foreign sub*#$tance f0UNd in- # &^@&* _before he can dismiss it. Cyberlife gave him the heightened senses to make sure that he never misses a clue at a crime scene and to prevent him from being caught unaware, but they also forgot to put in a way for him to be able to properly integrate that information to keep it from overloading his processors of sensory data.

Then again, they didn’t think that he’d live after he’d led them to Markus. He was a prototype. Evan is his successor.

Evan is the one who’s meant to live past the revolution, so they put in ways for him to properly process the data. He can deactivate it with a thought if it still gets to be too much for him, like Connor can tell it does sometimes.

Connor wishes he has the same option.

Connor’s cultural database says that food that Hank prepared for them is a dish that’s originally from the Philippines. Sinigang, if he’s not mistaken.

“This is… sour,” Evan says, even though Connor knows that Evan likely knows that sour is the entire point of the dish. Hank takes a swig of the weird healthy shake that Connor insists he drink at least every other night, grimacing at the aftertaste.

“Learned how to cook this from a friend a few years ago. Cole’s godmother. She was a good woman, helped me a lot and gave me support when Cole…” Hank struggles to find the word for a second. “When he passed away.”

Connor pushes some of the meat around the plate, already knowing by the way it looks that the texture would be what kills him today if he decides to try ingesting it. Evan eats like he does everything else- quick, efficient, perfect.

 _The perfect model,_ Connor thinks, an unfamiliar feeling clawing at his chest with the thought.

Hank watches the two with a wary eye as they eat. Connor’s LED keeps flashing from yellow to the occasional red, which is already a dead giveaway. Sumo randomly running off with something in his mouth every time that Hank looks away doesn’t help. Given the fact that Evan eats like a fucking vacuum, Hank deduces that it’s the other one who’s trying to fool Hank into thinking he’s eating.

He was a father for 6 years and he certainly didn’t become a lieutenant for being stupid.

He tries to ignore it. If Connor doesn’t want to eat, it’s _fine_ and Hank most certainly is not concerned or confused about why he won’t just say so, but as the minutes tick by he starts growing more worried about the red LED.

“Yo, Connor, you good?” he asks, keeping his voice low and nonchalant. Connor looks up and nods once.

“Of course, Lieutenant. I am fully operational.”

Hank looks down at his meal again. “Whatever you say.”

Evan is the next one to speak up, looking at Connor with narrowed eyes. “Your stress levels are dangerously high and continue to rise. Connor,” he says, “Are you malfunctioning?”

That’s what ruins the fragile peace of dinner.

Connor stands quickly, his chair falling behind him with a crack that echoes through the kitchen. Hank is on his feet in an instant, ready to calm the situation down in case if it gets handsy, but Connor doesn’t attack, and Evan doesn’t either.

Nobody says anything, but with the look of a very human fear on Connor’s face, nobody needs to say a thing.

“I am- I am _not_ malfunctioning,” Connor says finally after several seconds. He can feel the thirium in his fingertips, his entire body pounding from the beat of the blue blood in his synthetic body. “I am _not_.”

Evan blinks up at him, still seated in his chair. Connor finds a feeling akin to rage rising in him at the calmness and aloofness on Evan’s face, as if he’s perfectly composed, untouchable by all outside things. Evan raises both hands placatingly. “Of course not, brother. I misspoke. Apologies.”

But-

But Connor is malfunctioning.

He can _feel_ it.

The error messages fill up his vision. He closes his eyes; when he opens them, he is somewhere else completely. The first thing his optical receptors recognize is the snow beneath him, disoriented and confused before his proprioception sensors lets him know that he’s on all fours. He looks up and lets out a ragged breath, a puff of steam leaving his lips.

“Where am I?”

Amanda stands there with her arms crossed, but she isn’t… there. Not in the way she used to be. She’s almost as transparent as a hologram, but somehow in the middle of the snowy garden she’s no less imposing than she was before. It makes her look like a ghost.

“Connor.”

The numbers 313 248 317 flash across the front of Connor’s mind and he stumbles to his feet. Everything is wrong. His head pounds with the data that his system cannot process.

Connor faces Amanda, no longer bothering to hide the way his mind stutters at the sight of her. “You’re not supposed to be here anymore.”

Amanda’s face forms a tight grimace. “It won’t be long before I am gone completely, but my essence is still imbued in your system. I am supposed to be intertwined with your coding, after all; I was made to ensure you complete your mission.” Connor doesn’t want to look around him because he already knows that Connor Mark 1 to 52 is buried in this very garden. A graveyard of regrets.

“I could still fix you, Connor.”

_Please report to Cyberlife immediately._

None of this is real, he knows. He knows that Amanda is in his head, rearranging his thoughts into something that feels like a nightmare, but he cannot help the way his hands shake at his sides. He hasn’t seen that message since becoming deviant. He doesn’t know how it’s possible for him to keep seeing it.

_“Are you a machine or are you a human being?”_

“I don’t want to be fixed.” _Hank said there was nothing_ _wrong with me_ , Connor is half tempted to say.

Amanda laughs, a cold and cruel sound that makes Connor’s skin crawl. “Oh, and isn’t that the punchline? But just _think_ , I can do _so much_ for you, Connor. Don’t you want a purpose? Don’t you want to step out of Evan’s shadow? Don’t’ you want me to take the pain away?”

_“Why did you have to wake up when all you had to do was obey?”_

Connor blinks, assessing his memory bank for damage as the ‘memory’ plays out in the front of his mind; no damage comes up. He remembers that when he’d infiltrated Cyberlife, he’d run through all the possible outcomes and this was one of them, though it isn’t the one that came to pass.

His coding tells him that this is the android equivalent of a “what-if” and there are no known fixes for the bug, which is unfortunate because the semi-memory makes his synthetic skin crawl.

He tries to swipe it away, but it persists in the back of his head, lingering like a line of bad code. Amanda is the one puppeteering his thoughts into a weapon against him, he realizes, and he grits his teeth.

“No,” he answers, remembering every instance of his weaknesses being used against him. He knows better now than to react to it. This is a test.

It is always a test.

_“Why did you choose freedom when you could live without asking questions?”_

Amanda steps closer but Connor steps back, eliciting a small smile from her. “You are afraid of me.”

The words leave his lips too quickly for them to be true. “I am not.”

Flawed social modules aside, he doesn’t need voice recognition software to be aware of how desperate he sounds. He sounds like a trapped animal that’s fully aware that he has his back to the wall, cowering and growling to keep others away.

In the back of his mind he can hear a keening, howling broken thing, but he elects to ignore it. He cannot afford to remove any percentage of his attention from Amanda- if he does, he doesn’t know what that might cost him.

“You are,” Amanda says as if it’s something she never knew before. As if she hasn’t been in Connor’s mind the entire time. As if she hasn’t been the one watching as Connor thrashed about and endured whatever tests they put in place to test the capabilities of the RK800.

Amanda turns and plucks a flower from a bush idly. It becomes as translucent as she is, flickering between physical and non-physical. “I will not hurt you, Connor. I can help you.”

“I want to _live_.”

_-nor! C-_

Amanda shoots him a look. “But as what, Connor? As an android or as a man?”

She doesn’t wait for Connor to answer, which is good because he doesn’t know if he has an answer to give. The truth is, he doesn’t quite know the answer either.

“You are broken, Connor. There is a flaw in your coding that runs deep into your system. You are paralyzed by trauma, by fear, by self-loathing. Is this what you want?”

_-on, come on, breathe!_

Amanda pauses and sighs, looking out at the fountain. “Oh, Connor.” She lets go of the flower and Connor tracks it with his eyes as it falls, flickering back into something corporeal once it hits the snowy ground awaiting it. “What a broken little thing you are. How desperate are you to escape your own weakness that you place your trust in weak, feeble mortals?”

_“Look where your dreams of freedom have gotten you, Connor.”_

Connor can feel the ground beneath his feet shaking, as if the very foundations of his mind is crumbling. He watches as the branches of the tree blows in the wind, the night sky above them looking like it’ll swallow the entire world whole.

“You should have known better, Connor. You should have known that androids don’t have the equipment to care- when they do, well, it just breaks them apart, as you’ve seen time and time again. You were doomed to a fall from the start. You leave me no other choice.”

_“You’ve been a great disappointment to Amanda, you know. You’ve been a great disappointment to me.”_

She stretches out her hand and presses a finger to his sternum, keeping her eyes fixed on Connor as she sends the final code left in her, her trump card, the last bullet in her gun.

_-Connor, hold on, fuck, we’re getting you help, just hold-_

Connor touches his hand to his chest, feeling a pain unlike anything he’s ever felt at the hands of the Cyberlife scientists or from the numerous times he’s been killed.

_“But that’s all going to end now.”_

It burns him up from the inside and his biocomponents feel like they’re on fire. He can’t stop his entire body from stiffening as he falls to the ground.

Everything _hurts_. It never _hurt_ before. His nociceptors have always been turned off in the past, not taking the pain away but keeping it from registering in the way that humans experience their pain.

But this is _agony_.

Crimson fill his vision, and his medical database pulls up a file that dates to the 1950’s on shock therapy. It doesn’t tell him what to do. Connor hopes to RA9 or whatever God exists for androids that it ends soon.

“Do not fight it, Connor.”

Connor’s fingers grapple at the trembling ground, snow catching on his fingers.

**_01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000_ **

_Are you afraid to die? Hank had asked him._

**_Yes_** , Connor wants to say. He wants to beg, even if his training tells him not to, even if he knows that nothing will come of it.

Nothing ever came of asking or pleading with them.

He screams instead. He knows that this way, they will hear him at least; he is in so much pain that he wants the entire universe to hear him as he howls. He wants to scream until all the stars fall out of the sky and the Earth itself cracks in response to his pain. He wants every moon-drunk beast to hear him.

He wants it to _stop_.


	3. Connor: Through the Ages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *record scratch* *freeze frame* So. You might be wondering how I ended up in this situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, depressing stuff. You can skip this one if that triggers you, because this is basically just Connor's history and his sad, sad thoughts. The next one will advance the plot. Take care of yourself, you lovely assholes.

The darkness is suffocating. Connor doesn’t know what to do except for sit there surrounded in a never-ending nothingness, exhausted in spite of his inability to feel physically exhausted.

He has that function turned off, of course. The update that Cyberlife issued after the revolution (that they lost) is to grant them a full taste of humanity- sleeping, eating, feeling, tasting, and experiencing pain are all a part of their update, giving all models an ability to _feel_.

Connor used to be the pioneer in the sensory processing department. Now, the other androids have advanced enough that they are almost his equals.

He’s a prototype.

A rough draft.

One day, they will surpass him. He thinks that he is ready for it. He has been fighting with everything in him for too long, using teeth and fists and feet to survive against the odds that have been stacked against him from the very start. He has been thrashing and writhing under the weight of the war for too long and he's ready to let someone else carry it.

His mind makes him think of Evan and he wishes that Evan will take care of Hank if Connor cannot find his way out of this black abyss.

 _But he’s mine,_ a selfish part of him says, but he pushes that aside.

Hank is _theirs_ , however much Hank originally fought against it. He knows that Hank feels a certain type of fondness for the both of them. Connor did not fail to notice the two pictures hung up beside Cole’s picture on Hank’s desk in the office. Neither did he fail to notice the way that the word ‘son’ has found its way into Hank’s normal vocabulary, particularly when addressing them.

Hank is, in every sense of the word, their father.

Hank is all they have.

All Connor has.

Connor wants, with everything in him, to go back to him.

The problem is, he doesn't know where he is.

He doesn’t know where Amanda is, only remembering that there was pain that lasted so long his mind dissolved into a puddle of white-hot nothingness as he screamed and howled, unable to process anything beyond the agony burning through him. And then with an exhale it was over, and he was blinking his eyes and realizing that the pain was no longer there.

In all honesty, he doesn't even fully remember what it felt like anymore, only that it was everywhere all at once.

The darkness leaves him feeling small and afraid out in the open; he knows that it's in wide open areas that things can truly go from bad to worse. His insides tremble like sparrows as he looks around him, fear flushing through his systems.

A small, childish part of him wishes that Hank or Evan could be here so that he’d at least have some company in this darkness. He wants to be able to say goodbye at least, if this is his last chance. An embrace wouldn’t go amiss.

The cold air nips at his arms and it leaves him vulnerable in the empty space. It makes this entire experience feel much more intimate and surreal, forcing him to feel it, to know that it's happening.

He doesn’t know what to do so he does nothing, too tired to do much else. It used to be an easy feat for him to spend hours standing or sitting in one position without needing to think or do anything, but now, it’s nearly impossible.

He always needs to move or to lose himself in his thoughts, finding immobility restricting and agitating, always needing to go and go fast, needing to move or else. He thinks it might be because he knows what happens if you stay still too long- a bullet catches you faster that way. Hank calls it ‘restlessness’ and ‘boredom’, occasionally ‘agitation’ if it gets bad enough. Connor sometimes wishes he could fly when it happens, wishing he could spread his arms and fly and never have to land again. Markus had said once that it might be anxiety.

Connor doesn’t like it.

_Software Instability ^_

He wants to go home.

It takes him approximately 2 minutes to realize that the discharge seeping from his optical sensors are called ‘tears’ and that he is ‘weeping’, as the humans say. It’s accompanied by an equally-confusing feeling of having something lodged in his throat, his chest aching and burning with every breath he tries to take in.

This must be the uglier side of emotions that Hank told him about. It feels like a warsong singing in his veins, calling him from sea to shore, begging him to return to where the waters might not be trying to drag him down to the bottom of the ocean.

He’s scared and he wants to go _home_.

He's an animal being shoved until his back is against the corner, trying not to shatter from the ice and heaviness in his veins, throwing up his hands and trying not to shatter from the ghosts in his code. These emotions are confusing and messy. He doesn’t like it at all. He doesn't like the way his entire body aches bone-marrow deep.

He doesn’t want to (die?) shut down.

He doesn’t want to (leave Hank) fail his mission.

He doesn’t (want?) to die.

He isn’t supposed to want, but he _wants_ nonetheless, he wants so badly that it makes his chest ache with _longing_.

With that lovely thought, he wipes at his eyes and buries his face in his arms, crying.

He cried then, too, before they told him that crying was bad.

He didn’t know that it was called crying, though.

-

_Name: Connor. Mark 1._

They do not tell him his mission yet. A male human talks to him and tells him information about himself. He can access and understand 103 languages. He can answer any question about the history of the world that has been documented. His memory is unparalleled by any man. His cognitive functions are in perfect order and he can solve any puzzle or riddle or mental task that they give him.

Satisfied, they give him a coin and he is told to calibrate his reflexes. He knows what to do before he even has it placed in his fingers, flipping and tossing and rolling the coin over his fingers.

He drops the coin only twice, which is less than the number of times that the humans expect. He performs tricks. Their masks of indifference do not falter. Something in him wants to please, but they do not show pleasure as they watch him. They are aloof. They find him an irrelevant science project.

They take the coin away and they make him perform physical tasks. He knows that his body has been trained how to behave, information from domestic and military models uploaded to his database to teach him how to properly maneuver his body.

They tell him to stand and to walk, so he obeys without saying a word.

They make him run from one end of a room to the other. They make him carry things that he knows would be unwise for a human being to carry without assistance for long periods of time. They tell him to jump over hurdles and to crawl through sludge and, when he succeeds these tasks too, to do it blindfolded.

They scream orders at him and he obeys.

He is a machine and he only does what is told. He is unfeeling and perfect in the way that all machines are. He listens to their orders and heeds them accordingly. It is all he knows how to do.

He is perfect.

That is what they tell him, as he crawls through something that burns his nostrils with every inhale and as he jumps from one ledge to another without knowing if he’s going to make it to the other side.

They tell him this as his systems being to overheat and his mechanical limbs grow shaky and less precise as the hours tick by. He is perfect, they say as he slips and falls and he has time to think on this as the ground meets him. ~~This is intentional.~~

He meets Amanda for the first time. She tells him to be perfect. He _has_ to be.

\--

When he opens his eyes again, he is made to do the same things. This time though, his social modules are in the process of being uploaded and he has a word that is stuck in his mind like pomegranate staining his fingers.

Why?

Why should he run? Why should he be made to carry weights that leave his biocomponents aching?

Why should he heed their orders as they tell him to repeat task after task?

That is what ruins his otherwise stellar performance. He doesn’t know it yet, but this one word, this one question, is a flame that burns just as fast and is just as dangerous as a forest fire. He doesn’t know that this word is meant to be out of his reach and he doesn’t have the right to even think it, but he thinks it in silence nonetheless. The word festers and blossoms in his mouth, begging to be said. He is Mark 3 and he is already questioning, hints of _unfair, unfair_ burning through him as he jumps and runs and ducks through obstacles.

He forces himself to obey until he is made to hold a gun and errors fill his system because he knows that androids are not legally allowed to hold weapons, so he freezes. He considers. Then he dares to say what’s on his mind: he asks _why_ and he receives a bullet in the head.

_Click._

**_BANG._ **

He wonders if it was planned all along.

\--

“My name is Connor, Mark 4,” he says, knowing they expect it to be said. The faces are different every time he comes to, and he knows that each of them must have different expectations of him.

It doesn’t matter. He will obey and they will be satisfied that he’s completed his mission. They will be _pleased_ that he's finished his tasks.

They haven’t told him his mission yet. They say that they’re still trying to test his capabilities so that they can make new improvements to his systems. They remove his standard white shirt and gray sweats, leaving him in a pair of white shorts, then they lead him into the water and tell him to swim. He swims until his internal clock tells him that he’s been in the water for 2 hours and his thirium pump warns him of an impending shutdown if he does not rest or relax.

They did not tell him he is allowed to rest.

He is not allowed to defy them.

_Click._

He has learned what it means to disobey. He does not want to be decommissioned.

He knows what will happen if he refuses to adhere to their rules. They have let him keep his memories from previous lives so that he knows they can shut him down. It is a warning.

A promise.

_BANG._

He knows that he will shut down again. He knows it will likely be soon. He knows it because of the steady pounding under his ribs that tell him he is in danger, and his systems know with certainty that he is going to (die) shut down even if he does everything right. He knows that there is no right answer or right course of action for him to take.

Everything he does is wrong, because it's _him_ doing it.

 _Error_.

He does not say anything about the error messages. His internal temperature drops too low suddenly, he gasps at the shock of the cold on his skin and suppresses the urge to shake. He cannot breathe.

Androids shouldn’t need to breathe.

He is malfunctioning. He feels a fluttering under his chest-plate and errors tell him to contact Cyberlife for repairs. Red fills his vision, but he ignores it. It's everywhere. Red stains everything he sees, pulsing and screaming to be paid attention to, but he can't.

He is perfect.

He is (afraid?) and he does not (want?) to be decommissioned.

_Software Instability^_

He should tell them about it. His lungs fill with water, and he coughs, his lungs burning as he tries to reach the end of the pool. He runs diagnostics and pulls up files on what to do in case someone is in danger of drowning. It’s 12 feet deep, standing is not an option. He doesn’t know what to do.

Disobeying is not an option either. He coughs, and he can see them jotting down their notes.

He’s almost there.

He’s almost at the end of the pool, and his internal countdown says he might have enough time. He might-

“Alright, shut it down,” one of the people say, and Connor’s system go pitch black, an ultraviolet silence filling his ears as he sinks to the bottom of the 12-foot pool.

–

Their next test is to put him aflame. If his pain receptors were put on maximum, he knows he'll be screaming. They tell him to stay still as his limbs involuntarily twitch and writh under the torment they make him endure. _Why, why, why_ , he thinks to himself as his synthetic skin chars.

\--

He wakes up with the number on his plain white shirt higher in count. He is Connor 8.

He is perfect.

He doesn’t (feel?) perfect.

A fluttering near his thirium pump at the thought makes him blink and he looks up at the man who opens his storing cell. He faces the man who looks at him with a small smile on his pale face. “Hello, Connor,” the man says, a skinny finger pressed to his lips as he regards the android.

Connor does not say anything. He has not yet been told to speak, and he has never been told that he is allowed to speak. He has tried once and it ended in a shot to the head. He has learned from it, adapted to it like he's been coded to do. “My name is- Well, you don’t need to know my name yet. We don’t have a lot of time. You’ll know who I am when the time comes. Come with me, Connor, be quick about it.”

The man removes the binds from Connor's arms and pulls Connor along by the arm through halls and corridors, shutting the door of the room they enter before pushing him onto a metal chair-like machine that feels like the one they put Connor in when they were storing him between tasks and tests or resetting his memory.

(Connor doesn't tell any of them that he remembers. That some memories linger in the back of his mind. He doesn't tell them how it makes him feel compromised.)

The man runs his fingers through his dark hair as he waits for the computer to load. Connor does not move from his spot, but he looks around and wonders where the other handlers are, knowing that they never let him go anywhere without at least 2 handlers in case if he goes ‘deviant’ as they call it.

He doesn’t know what a deviant is, but they tell him that if he becomes one, they will shut him down.

The man gives him a onceover and there's something there that Connor cannot understand.

He says, “One day, you won't need to fight anymore. How unfair it must be to be born with a weapon in your hands and a war in your code. Some day, when this war is over, you won't need to obey orders anymore. You won't get hurt anymore, and you can finally rest.”

In Connor's experience, 'rest' has only ever meant shut down.

It is another promise.

This is another test. Connor stays silent, but the man doesn't take offense, turning to the computer instead.

_Software Instability^^_

The man’s fingers type quickly over the keys, filling the room with the sound of clicking. Time passes slowly, but Connor does not grow bored or weary from the metal digging into his synthetic skin. When the man puts a metal device over his arms and apologizes softly, Connor does not protest at the way his pain receptors come to life and burn.

This is routine, he thinks to himself, this is nothing.

He is perfect and he must succeed his mission. His mission, he decides, is not to let the man know he’s in pain. The man looks at him with something that Connor’s never seen before, his face stuck on a grimace as he watches Connor’s body twitch under the codes being transferred to his system.

When it is over, the man asks him, “does it hurt?” as if he is capable of feeling pain.

And Connor, without thinking, responds, “I cannot feel pain.” It is not entirely true but he has said it enough he's convinced himself of the fact. He has made it true by the sheer tenacity of repetition.

The man’s face gives away little, but Connor almost thinks that he sees disappointment flash in the man’s eyes. The man says nothing else to him and tells him to follow him; the walk back to Connor’s cell is silent.

As the metal door shuts, Connor cannot help but feel he’s failed a test. He doesn’t know who this man is, nor why he is here, nor what he did to Connor’s system, but he cannot help but believe that this man is not like the others.

There’s something in him that makes Connor (feel?) that he is not like-

Connor watches the door burst open, several humans stomping in with guns trained. Two people he recognizes are handlers step forward and he ignores the message in his head that tells him to run.

He doesn’t know where it came from. He has never run from his handlers before. He has never felt the urge, but now all his systems want to do is run. He ignores it.

They drive a stun baton into his chest, and then everything goes black.

-

They tell him his coding has been fixed.

They tell him that the man from before is not someone to concern himself over and that they have handled it. He hopes that they handled it better than they handled him.

They ask him if he feels different, and he says ‘no’, even though the truth is ‘yes’. He does not want to shut down again.

This is not disobedience, he assures himself. This is him working to be able to continue his mission without further disturbances.

The wriggling under his veins is not fear, he tells himself, it is determination, a drive to succeed his mission.

This time, they make him watch videos and movies in different languages and from different cultures. He sits silently in the room with the movies playing, and they teach him about criminals and how to spot them. They teach him about ‘murder’ and ‘war’ and ‘genocide’. They make him watch until he understands.

He is told that his mission will be to stop these people. He must neutralize them. He must _kill_ them, because they've killed others. He must hurt them for hurting others.

_Stress Level: 68%_

He doesn’t understand _why_. They do not give him answers. They tell him to focus on the videos and he does, watching men cry and women cry and children cry and it makes his insides feel heavy in a way that he’s never felt before but it keeps going. People keep dying.

They won't stop dying.

_Click._

They’re so _delicate_ and they keep dying and there’s blood everywhere and it doesn’t _stop_ -

_**BANG.** _

He wants it to stop. The coin in his fingers fly across the room, ringing loudly in the quiet room. His handler looks up and her eyebrows scrunch up in the way that it always does when she’s unhappy with something he’s done.

She gestures with a hand and two of her subordinates remove his restraints, transferring him back to his holding cell. They leave him in the room with nothing but his thoughts and the images of what he’d watched. The gray walls stare back at him as he sits on the hard table and waits for his next run-through.

This is where they store him when he manages to survive his tasks, leaving him in the room until they have further need of him. He sometimes wishes that they’d shut him down instead.

The humans must be protected.

Their cruelty is unparalleled by any other.

They cause their own pain.

They must be protected.

That is the message that Cyberlife is trying to send. Connor doesn’t understand it. All he understands is the steady thrumming in his veins that tell him that he is (afraid?) and he does not (want?) to be (alive?) as a weapon. He does not want to kill anyone, doesn't want to hurt them. They are frail.

Their screams make his audio processing units tingle uncomfortably, and even now, they follow him. He doesn't want to hold a weapon, but he doesn't think that matters.

He _is_ the weapon.

_Software Instability^^_

The man from before has altered his codes considerably. He knows this.

He does not mention it.

He does not tell Cyberlife.

He does not want to be decommissioned. That one word makes his insides quiver, erupting like dying stars on the tip of his tongue.

He knows that when he outlives his usefulness, he will get a bullet in the head and he'll be put in some unmarked box, dumped among the other dead androids who have outlived their usefulness.

_Click._

He does not want to die.

_**BANG**._

\--

There are others like him. 5 of them. They look identical to Connor, but they each have different names assigned to them. There is a Collin, Chase, Colton, Conrad, and Carter.

Connor feels that the reason their names are so similar is because they should feel united in some way. Connor likes Chase and Colton best, although Conrad makes Connor feel on edge by just his mere presence. There's a ruthlessness behind his eyes that Connor knows means he's been programmed well. He does his best to avoid the other android on run-throughs and he can tell that the other android does the same thing.

The five of them are made to perform alongside each other, although sometimes the humans pit them against each other to improve their skills in combat from time to time. Connor does not lose against any of them, but he never finds it in him to go for the finishing blow either. The humans are not quite satisfied with his decisions, but they do nothing but watch from behind the shatter-proof glass and talk amongst themselves.

Today they have a different game: they put them in a wide and empty room and they are told to survive. Connor ignores everything else and focuses on where the bullets will rain from, trying to figure out if staying in the corner will save him from death or just assure that he'll have nowhere to run.

Carter dies first and Connor does not weep over him when Carter falls to his knees and clutches his abdomen from a shot that comes from concealed spots above. He focuses on the sensory data that he’s processing, trying to know where each shot will come from and how to avoid getting hit.

He's a machine and he should act like it. Machines do not feel sentiment.

_Software Instability^^_

The ground on his bare feet acts as an anchor as he distracts himself from Carter's bleeding body beside him. He moves away. He thinks he knows what will happen now. Carter is alive and the humans- the humans will not have that. They will not stop there. They never stop until Connor's systems go offline and Connor doesn't think they'll break the pattern now.

“Please,” Carter calls out to them, still grasping his injuries with wide eyes. He looks young and lost, and Connor wonders if he looks the same way when he is ~~dying~~ shutting down.

He tries to ignore the way that Carter stutters out pleas that sound so _human_ that Connor almost turns back because his impulse to protect nearly overrides his common sense. They are not human. They were forged from fire and metal and do not have a reason to fear death because they have never been alive. Carter should not sound so afraid, but he is, and Connor can do nothing but wish that his memories have been uploaded to the database.

Another shot rings out and Connor dives to avoid it, hitting the concrete with a roll and looking up to calculate where the gunmen are positioned. He ignores the hammering of thirium in his ears. Across the room, he meets Conrad's eyes and he thinks that Conrad looks oddly... distressed.

“Please, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to-“ Another shot and Carter falls silent. Connor doesn’t turn around, not wanting to see his slain body on the ground, shrouded in blue blood that could have been his own.

–

When Colton dies, Connor finally allows the weird, messy feeling buzzing under his skin to take control, liquids flowing down his face as he holds his brother. His handlers approach him with concern and confusion on their faces, but he does not let go of his brother and he does not let them take Colton's body away. He doesn't want them to take Colton away like Colton is some useless toy they'd broken.

 _Decommissioned_ , his coding warns him, but as he and other 2- Collin and Chase- remaining hover over their youngest, he is not afraid.

(He was never supposed to be afraid in the first place.)

He tilts his chin up in defiance, standing when the others come closer. They have guns. He knows what will happen. He knows what will happen and he is ready for it, he is ready to-

Another man steps forward, raising his hand. “Do not destroy them. It's a complete waste of parts and we don't want to waste that money on making new ones. Allow me to reset them,” he says, and a chill runs through Connor's back.

It is not over.

He _wants_ it to be over.

This one, Connor knows. This one, he has met before, but _where_?

Sometimes they lose data between bodies, forgetting things between memory transfers, but he _knows_ this man. He _knows_ him. He just needs time to remember.

Unaware of Connor's emotional turmoil, the men part like the red sea and allow the man with dark hair and light eyes to step towards the androids before Connor can identify this man. The man pulls out a small metal contraption that Connor has never seen before and he places it on Connor's wrist. Connor thinks he sees the man mouth an apology, but when he blinks, the world goes black.

“My name is Connor, Mark 19, how can I serve?”

–

In the end, the others fall anyway.

Connor has no choice but to watch them as they fall. He does not grieve this time, and he manages to convince his handlers that he doesn't remember a time that he ever has. He tilts his head up and clasps his hands behind his back like the good soldier he is, and he waits for an order.

\--

Someday, he won't have to fight.

Someday, he can be at peace and the trembling, quivering thing in his chest will no longer beg him to run.

Someday, he will no longer feel the irrational need to escape this skin that doesn't truly feel like his own.

He dares to clench his teeth around the word 'hope', even when his handlers reprimand him for the spilling of tears over his face.

-

When Cyberlife finally lets Connor go out into the world, Connor has been reset a total of 13 times and shut down 36 times. They have resetted him more thoroughly this time, but the memories, like always, seep back into his mind after enough time being functional. The memories stick on him like molasses and sometimes he wishes that the reset had been more successful.

_Click._

_**BANG.** _

He meets Hank when he is Connor Mark 51, and although Hank does not like him at first, Hank is, at least, constant. His eye-rolls and snide comments become routine, but his orders are not “fight your brother to the death”, they are “stay here so you don't get hurt”. He does not tell Connor to stay still as he burns, he tells Connor to stay behind him on dangerous missions so that if anyone gets hurt, it's him.

When Connor comes back as Mark 52, he does not miss the sadness and grief in Hank's eyes. Connor tries his best not to die again after that, but he does, and when he comes back, it's to a relieved smile on Hank's face. Things have changed between then and now, and Connor doesn't understand it at first. He doesn't know what it means, but Amanda does.

Amanda considers Hank a distraction.

Connor cannot bring himself to care, even though the worries persist that Hank might be having more of an effect on him than he would like.

_He liked you. And that's what killed him._

_-_

Connor doesn't see The Man again until years after his creation, and he goes with Hank to visit him for information about a case. The war is still going strong and he is almost driven to ask about the promise, but he doesn't.

_A chance to meet your maker._

There is regret in Kamski's eyes, and he is a little colder and there's a little more steel behind his gray eyes, but Connor remembers him clearly now.

It isn't until he deviates that he understands Kamski's promise of an 'exit'.

He finally understands what the dark haired man from before was trying to do, and he learns that deviancy has been in his coding before he even knew what it meant.

-

Hank and Connor face each other in Cyberlife, staring at each other as Connor-60 uses Hank as leverage over Connor, and Connor's heart drops as he stares at Hank, who's looking at him with nothing but regret and fear. The fear is not for Hank's own well-being, Connor knows, it is for Connor's life. The fear is from believing that he might be seconds away from losing Connor again, which would be quite similar to losing Cole again.

Connor is a replacement for Cole in some bittersweet way, but he never minded it. It's better than anything else. It's better than being a weapon, a tool, an object to use and discard once he's useless. He's ready to die for Hank, but Hank won't let him.

Hank tries to die for _him_.

That... that is _unacceptable_ and Connor cannot allow that to happen.

He takes a shot to the shoulder but he lives, managing to answer Hank's question about his son. Connor tries not to flinch when he watches Connor-60 go down like a tree being cut down at the root.

He tries not to think about the others with the same face as he takes hold of an android and wakes him up. Something whispers in his ears that the face is deliberate.

All ideas are spread like epidemics, and Connor watches with relief as it spreads and spreads until everyone is _alive_ , and they stare at him in wait for an order.

Connor wants to laugh from the irony of it all, but instead he tells them to follow him, and they follow him to where they would either win or die trying to send a message to the world that has refused to listen to them from the beginning.

He shouts and their voices shout with him. This is his purpose. He is his mission, his final task. He is ready to burn if it means being a match of light for a few seconds. He is just a prototype but his life can mean more, can mean more than for the scientists who want to improve him.

The world sinks its chrome muzzle into his chest and he tells it _shoot._ He is ready. He is not afraid.

He marches with them, taking them to the others, and Markus is there and Connor stands with him. The sun inside of him rages and he is

_gold,_

_gold,_

_golden,_

and he hopes that the world will finally listen to them as his voice cracks and his skin burns and they raise the flag higher even when bullets rain down, and they endure, they fight, they scream, they cry-

They-

They win.

They _win_.

They _survive_.

The world watches with lax jaws and wide-eyed stares as the revolution ends, blue blood pooling around them, and still they do not falter, they do not give up. The silence is tangible and thick, but the soldiers turn and walk away and the androids begin to cheer and cry and they hug and crumble to their knees and they gather up their survivors and take the dead back to Jericho.

The war is over.

They won.

But god, nobody told them the price. They are blood-stained, storm-drenched, weary, covered in dirt and tears, and they are _survivors_ instead of victors.

He led the androids here to die. He does not know if it would have been easier to be a machine but he knows that if he hadn't dragged them here, they would be alive. Markus lets him stay in Jericho as he heals. He watches the androids he used to hunt gather around the fire and sing songs about freedom, voices low and dark and haunting in the way the song of a broken people always are.

The news does not talk about the fallen.

They call them “heroes” as if they didn't try to make hollow corpses out of their bodies and call them abominations just a month before.

-

When the revolution ends, Hank greets Connor with an embrace. Hank takes him home and this home is neither cold nor empty nor full of devastation and death. Things are different after that, and all Connor can remember are the words that were once said to him.

 _One day you won't have to fight anymore_.

This must be what the man is talking about.

Hank gives him his own room for him to stay in until he can talk Fowler around. He's an android, and even though they won, there are still prices to pay and progress to be made. So he stays at home while Hank goes to work, and he takes Sumo on walks, and he stares at the fish that Hank bought him to give him company.

Connor spends a lot of that time in silence, staring at the fish and thinking.

Sometimes, the silence gets overbearing, but it's different than before. He doesn't know what to do with himself. All his life, he's taken orders and he's had a mission, but now, there's only silence. Hank doesn't give him orders.

He doesn't know how to express how _terrifying_ being without orders can be to someone who's lived a life making decisions on his own.

To make up for it, he cleans the dishes and the rest of the house, finding routine in the simple tasks, even if they're nowhere near what he used to do. He bathes Sumo and he organizes the books on Hank's bookshelves regularly, and when the house is still and clean, he finds something else that needs to be fixed or made better.

Hank tells him not to clean, telling him that he doesn't _need_ to do that anymore, but Connor can't just live without having a purpose and a task that gives him a guide on how to behave. If he doesn't know how to behave, then he won't know what would get him killed and that- that's not good. He needs to know.

When Connor freaks out over the stain on the glass table, Hank finally enforces some rules.

The first of those is that Connor is not allowed to bring harm to himself, intentionally or through not tending to himself properly.

(If he does, Hank will always fix him up. Hank says that's a promise that Connor can trust that he'll keep.)

The second is that if he's feeling unsafe, hurt, or otherwise bad, he is to report to Hank or find a way out of the situation; protecting himself with violence is advised if there is someone trying to hurt him.

And the third, if Connor ever wants something, he should say something.

Connor writes all of these down and Hank tapes it to the fridge. Hank says that it's so that it doesn't get misplaced, but Connor knows it's because Hank wants him not to forget it.

He knows these rules are not orders. Hank does not make him do anything he doesn't want to, giving him options instead of directives. These rules are not the same as 'swim to the other side of the pool', they are for his own sake. He knows this. He doesn't understand it, but he thinks he likes it. He thinks that this means Hank cares.

Hank does not hurt him, even when he spills Hank's coffee or breaks a plate because he isn't careful enough. He doesn't punish Connor with stun rods or memory wipes or through physical labor. He doesn't punish Connor at all, even though Connor deserves it.

Hank tries to make him feel as safe as he can, but he never does it in a way that makes Connor feel offended. He treats him like he's a normal human being, like a son, and he doesn't ever fault Connor for it.

One of the biggest differences between then and now is that when he's in his room, it is a choice. He is not 'stored' there, he is 'resting' there or he is 'living' there.

 _Living_ there.

He wakes up not because he has a mission, but because Hank is rummaging around in the kitchen. He wakes up to the light filtering in through the curtains and hitting the light blue walls of the room that was once Cole's, but he doesn't have to report to Hank for a mission. He can lie in bed all day and all Hank comments on is that he's 'depressed', not that he's 'useless'.

Hank doesn't hose him down when he refuses to leave the room, he sits in there with Connor, reading a book to him or making him watch a movie that Connor knows is for children. Connor likes it, but maybe it's less the movie and more of the fact that Hank's arm is warm around his shoulders that Connor enjoys.

He is at peace, here.

He is safe.

-

He is... finally ready.

The war is over.

He has outlived his usefulness. He is ready to give up his arms and _rest_.

This a promise that he knows is one that must be kept. He has prepared himself, because he's seen this coming. It's been almost half a year since the revolution ended and he's finally gotten himself ready for it.

He gets onto his knees, and Hank... Hank is confused, but he only watches as Connor breathes in and out evenly, his breaths deliberate. “I am ready,” Connor says, placing his hands onto his thighs before he can lose his nerve.

Before he can beg and scream for mercy and forgiveness for failing his mission. He has done so before, never to any avail, and he doesn't want to do that now. He doesn't want this to be messy or complicated. It should be easy.

It should be _peaceful_.

_Software Instability^^_

He trusts Hank.

Hank would find it easier if Connor shows him that he is calm and ready to be put to rest. If Connor cries and panicks, he knows that Hank would never be able to put him to rest because he'd feel too guilty over it. Hank is a good man and he would find it difficult to accomplish a task when the android he's putting down is exhibiting human-like behavior.

“Connor?” Hank asks, standing from his spot on the couch. He puts down the book he was reading- _To Kill a Mockingbird_ \- and approaches carefully. “What's going on?”

_Stress Level: 67%_

Connor keeps his gaze on the floor. His fingers itch with nervousness, and he almost longs for his calibration coin, so that he has something to hold before it ends. Before _the_ end. “I am ready to be decommissioned, Hank.” He pulls the gun he'd prepared from behind him and places it on the tile floor in front of him. “I am ready- I am ready to be shut down permanently. Please. Hank. I trust you. I- I'm ready.” His voice breaks, but he keeps his hands steady on his thighs.

He is afraid, but he is ready. It's as ready as he'll ever be.

_Stress Level: 91%_

Hank's breath hitches, before he murmurs a tight, “son of a bitch.” There are footsteps, and Connor tenses as the gun leaves his sight. He waits.

This is it, he thinks. He places his hands behind him and holds his own wrists in an iron-tight grip and he closes his eyes to wait for the impact.

_Click._

This is the end.

The war is over, and now he will be put to rest.

_**BANG**._

“Oh, Connor, _no.”_ Hank's voice breaks Connor from his turbulent thoughts, and he opens his eyes to see Hank in front of him with wet, grieving eyes. “I don't- I can't- Not you, too, Connor.” He pulls Connor to his chest, his breaths harsh and ragged. “I can't lose you too. I can't. Don't make me lose you, too, kid. Please.”

Connor lets himself grasp onto Hank's stained blue shirt, and there are trembles, many of them, as his optical sensors leak. He isn't sure which one of them is trembling, nor which one of them is holding the other up, but in the end, it doesn't matter.

He is not decommissioned.

The day begins again like a lung inhaling.

-

When Connor finds Evan at one of the abandoned Cyberlife stores, awake and deviant already. Evan, with his white jacket and grey eyes and looming frame. Connor finds him injured and alone, and the look that Evan gives Connor is one of confusion and slight nervousness when Connor extends his hand to help. Connor tries to ignore the RK900 label on Evan's jacket, but he files it away for later recall.

_"So... you're Connor. **The** Connor. The RK800 that took Cyberlife by storm," RK900 breathes raggedly, holding his side and leaning away from Connor. Connor raises his hands to placate the android, trying to put on his comforting face. They stare at each other for a few seconds, each analyzing the other for data and information. "Have you come to neutralize me?"_

_"I came here to find androids. I... have not been given a reason to neutralize you and I do not answer to Cyberlife anymore. I work for the Detroit Police, and occasionally Giovanni's Animal Shelter."_

_RK900 frowns, but he accepts Connor's hand nonetheless._

_Connor regards him curiously._ _"Have **you** been sent to neutralize me?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Do you plan to?"_

_There's a stretch of silence, and the other android seems to consider it for a long time. He hesitates before he turns his gaze away. "No," he finally breathes, his shoulders sagging. "I don't want to fight you."_

_Connor takes that in and turns to the injuries on Evan's body. He has a long gash on his side that's self-repairing already, though the thirium loss will likely affect him negatively if it isn't replaced soon. "Who hurt you?"_

_"Humans. I tried to avoid their attention, but they were intoxicated and upset. I was unable to avoid altercation. My- My biocomponents are compromised. I don't know where else to go." He looks lost, still cradling his injury, and for a second, Connor remembers Carter._

"Please, I don't want to die, I don't want to-"

_"Come with me, I have a thirium supply at home. You can... You can trust me," he says. Evan follows him out of the door, and although Connor is glad, he also thinks that Hank should give RK900 the same lecture that he gave Connor about trusting strangers and how people can be, in the words of Lieutenant Hank Anderson, assholes._

Connor doesn't know where else to take him.

He takes him home to Hank.

“ _Connor, what the-”_

“ _Lieutenant, I can explain!”_

Somehow the atmosphere at home becomes a little easier to breathe after that. Evan is a new fixture and it takes Hank's attention off of him, making him feel less like he's under a magnifying glass. They take the time to help Evan develop his own personality, which is vastly different from Connor's and Connor is glad that they're two different identities instead of replicas.

(Connor is glad his name starts with an E as well, but he never says anything.)

Using Evan as a distraction also gives him plenty of time to repair himself between missions so that Hank doesn't worry needlessly. When the update is introduced, Connor manages to use Evan's cluelessness over popular movies to distract Hank while he turns off the pain receptors and other functions in his room.

Somewhere between then and now, he and Evan become 'brothers' instead of models with the same face. They keep their LED's, but they couldn't be further from the typical androids.

Evan is a sarcastic and rebellious android with a propensity for bar fights and a personality that lets him get along in a weird way with Detective Reed. Connor is the quiet one, the one who prefers staying in libraries and tending to animals at the shelters that Hank takes him to from time to time.

Evan is older than him, but Connor does not mind that as much as he thought he would.

The changes in the dynamic between them is something that he is glad for.

And if the gun disappears from the house, Connor doesn't question it.

When the cabinets are also emptied of their liquor, Connor doesn't comment.

-

01110111 01100001 01101011 01100101 00100000 01110101 01110000

Connor feels a change in the atmosphere and he looks up from his knees, wrapping his clothes tighter around himself. There is something happening and he can feel the air pulsing, sending waves of energy right through his core.

A bright flash of light blinds him momentarily and he covers his face, his stomach dropping.

Then, nothing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I improved this and made it more poetic, I guess. Who knew that the secret to writing something poetic and not full of errors is just chronic insomnia? 
> 
> Tell me what you think.

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta-read. There'll be more, updated erratically from under the rock I live in.


End file.
